Cicero's Story
by Doctor-Honesty
Summary: An in depth tale that follows the Fool of Hearts from childhood until he loses his mind.
1. Chapter 1

i The author sighed heavily, idly stretching out their shoulders before dipping the pen back into the inkwell, and drawing the candle a little closer to the parchment upon which what was to become a rather unusual story was being written. Beside the figure, organized neatly one upon the other, were four journals. Scattered around them, scraps of notes, notations, and precious information gleaned from the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim, who had been fairly accommodating in providing it. Stacked on the floor, journals and unholy books saved from the ruins of the destroyed sanctuaries across Tamriel. And the author, determined to get down once and for all the complete history of the Fool of Hearts, bent back over the parchment, and began to write./i

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There only ever was one way of being recruited into the Dark Brotherhood. It was relatively simple, of course to gain recruits in such a manner- for as long as two beings existed side by side, someone wanted someone else dead. There was more to it, though- a crime of passion did not an assassin make; nor did accidental deaths, or murders for political gain, or other such trivial, ridiculous motivations like truth, and justice, anger and desire. It could start out that way, of course. One never really knew who was capable of killing for a living until after their first time. Some shy away from the death, wallowing in guilt. Others feel nothing about it, for it was just a means to their selfish ends. The perfect recruit is none of those things. The ever watching eye of the brotherhood only ever settled upon those who killed- and liked it. Not because the death improved their standing in society, not because it rid the world of an evil, but simply because it was as natural a reaction to them as breathing. They may not know it, of course. Their minds may have created many reasons as to why they killed, and why it was all right for them to do so. But Sithis and his lover could see through them, in to their souls… the souls of faithful servants, who do not yet know who it is they are serving.

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Children are precious to Sithis and the Night Mother. They were so pure, so untainted when they enter the world… and so easily molded. With minds that are empty, unfilled with the knowledge of the world and unruined by the structures of society. You see, crushing an adults dreams causes disappointment and despair. Crushing the dreams and realities of a child, however, wounded them down to the soul- scarring up their purity and creating fractures in their minds and moralities. No creature in all of Tamriel could be more cruel or more kind than a child. All members of the Dark Brotherhood have that special something, deep within them. That hurt, that scar, the wound that dug too deep and bled too long. In their search to heal it, they find the only thing that can: family. And a family of murderers, despite what one may think, is a strongly bonded family indeed.

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But that is not to say there are not tests- checks and balances to make sure the newest recruit would fit into the family. One may fit the profile perfectly- and still fail. Mistakes had been made in the past, leading to the unfortunate need to kill off potential members. They may have killed, they may have liked it, they may have a darkness deep in their souls that marks them as a killer for the rest of their lives… and they may reject the Brotherhood outright. There are simply some that Sithis can not reach. That, is why after the first kill, there is always a test. Can they follow orders? Are they loyal, unquestioning servants of darkness? Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. But all must be questioned before they are welcomed, and it is the job of the Speaker to make that decision.

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Within the brotherhood there is a very specific chain of command. Sithis looks favorably upon someone, and the Night Mother, in some form or another, must speak to the Listener, who will then convey the information to the Speaker, who does Sithis' work out in the world. When a potential recruit is found, then, there is much excitement. It is rare that any mistakes are made, unless there has been no contact between the Night Mother and the Listener. There are times when tragedy befalls the brotherhood, and their numbers are drastically reduced. In these times the Speaker is forced to recruit blindly from the masses, and it is in these times that problems can arise.

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Now for some unknown reason, no matter how well a secret is kept, it always manages to get out into the world in some form or another. There really isn't any way of properly explaining it, except that all races of the world are terrible gossips and that at any cost, they will elaborate, alter, and spread any and all information they come in contact with. Such is the case with the black sacrament, for example. It's not going to be advertised across all of Tamriel that if you're pissed off at someone, all you have to do is perform an evil ritual and throw some cash around and all your problems will be solved. Somehow, however, everyone who needs to know about it somehow does. An even better kept secret is the recruitment of the Dark Brotherhood. Each sect across Tamriel had developed, over the ages, different methods of recruiting potential members. Tests and trials to ensure eternal love and loyalty. Still, though all who pass never speak of it, and all who fail never live to tell the tale, rumor manages to make its way around.

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Two hundred years after the Oblivion crises and Bruma was doing well for itself. Though there were whispers of civil unrest in Skyrim, trade still flowed, and being the largest town nearest to the border, Bruma sought to find a profit from every tradesperson and migrating adventurer drawn to its safe walls and the warmth of the Jerall view inn, which had been rebuilt along with many of the other buildings after an unfortunate fire had plagued it over eighty years ago, decimating the population and destroying much of the wooden architecture. It wasn't until that point that anyone had thought building houses out of wood and surrounding them with a giant cobblestone wall probably wasn't a very good idea. With tragedy, though, comes opportunity; and if Nords are anything, they are hardy and stubborn people. Hardly anything can make them move once they decide to settle somewhere, and not a one of them would be lazy enough to do anything but rebuild better than they had originally settled.

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It was around the time that Imperial tradesmen, prospectors and soldiers began wheedling their way into the small town to replace the population and hopefully profit from a northern trading outpost. Around the same time, whisperings began- whisperings of shadows, darkness, and death. Opportunists come in all shapes and sizes, and the Dark Brotherhood was not the type to miss the chance to settle a new sanctuary and… expand their horizons, so to speak. Eventually, half of the towns' wooden buildings were replaced with cobblestone, much less likely to catch fire or rot in the heavy rains that often fell in the Northern parts of Cyrodiil. Strangely, the rebuilt town ended up with an odd addition that no one living there could quite account for. In the Northmost part of town, near the gates that lead out to the Jerall mountains and immediately adjacent to the Great Chapel of Talos, which had gracefully sidestepped the blazing inferno, was built what appeared to be a replica of the entrance to a Mausoleum, with a small shrine in the front for offerings to the dead. On a plaque above it was a sign, etched into the stone, stating 'All that live must die, passing through to oblivion and eternity'. It was lovely, really, and since the fire had killed so many people, the remaining townsfolk assumed it was built by some patron with respect for those who had passed. Those who were new to the town assumed it had been there forever, and in the end it was mostly forgotten, save the few offerings of candles and wildflowers that people would place at the shrine upon occasion. The Dark Brotherhood had made their way in, and spent the next seventy years or so settling in quite comfortably.

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~..~..~..~..~..~

"Come now, child. You'll never learn anything if you spend all your time staring at the sky." The elderly teacher groused, tapping the book of history that he held in his hands and gazing at his pupil in an irritated manner. The child, no older than twelve and lean like a whip, lounged against the bench of the open-roofed carriage they were riding in and scrunched his eyebrows together balefully.

"I'm not listening because I already know what's in that book, and it's boring." He replied snidely, pointedly not straightening his posture or making any effort to even make eye contact with the man who was supposed to be providing him with his lessons while they travelled the two day journey to the town of Bruma. "That man only hired you because he think's Im an idiot, and he only thinks Im that way because that's how I iwant/i him to think. So you can feel free to do whatever you want, and I'll do what I want, and we'll get along just fine." The elderly man sighed at the boys petulant tone and rubbed his eyes roughly with the fingers of one hand. Suddenly, a woman with long strawberry hair and a pleasant face trotted up alongside the carriage and swatted the boy on his head gently.

"Now chickpea, you be nice to your teacher, and don't talk so cruelly about your father. He's just trying to do his best for you." She chastised. The boy grumbled but consented, idly rubbing the top of his own carroty colored head.

"My apologies, teacher."

"That's better, son. And I'm sorry, mister Hogarth, for my boy. He's very smart, but his mouth sometimes runs away all on its own. You know, chickpea," she said, "if you ever want to be an actor in a travelling troupe one day like you're always saying, you're going to have to learn to be a bit more charming to those who wish you well." She smiled, crinkling her nose a bit and blowing a kiss at her child before urging the horse forward to the front of their small caravan group, to join with her husband. The child's expression softened for her, but hardened once again when she was gone up ahead.

Hogarth was closing up the book as the boy suddenly made eye contact and spat, "He's not my father you know. He's just some pompous bastard mum married." The teacher frowned, glancing behind him and between the two horses heads to look at the man in question. A stern, military type often with ale on his breath and always with money in his pocket.

"You should be more considerate, boy. Have you ever considered your mother might have married such a man for the sole purpose of giving you a better life? His money will help you out a lot. Keep you off the streets. Hell, he keeps me off the streets just by paying me to tell you things you obviously already know. So. Perhaps it's a better lesson to be working on that charm, like your mother said, eh?" he chuckled, reaching out his right foot to lightly kick the prideful child.

"Whatever."


	2. Chapter 2

Hello everyone! Sorry about the formatting errors in the previous chapter. It was designed for deviantart and I was too lazy to fix it! I hope this one ends up looking a little better.

Cicero and Tamriel and all game related items are Copyright to Bethesda, and this story is mine. All characters that are not from the games are also mine. Please favorite if you like, review if it pleases you, and be sure to put the story on alert if you want to be updated every time I post a new chapter.

Hogarth groaned in pain as he stretched out his stiff muscles from the three day long carriage ride. Still, at his age, it definitely beat horseback; and if he was being paid a small stipend to do it, so much the better. Having to spend those days alongside a rather uppity but all together intelligent child was a neutral consideration. The politics of the group were interesting enough. The woman, a coppery haired imperial by the name of Ladia, was a sweet but stupid thing who seemed to have very recently married the brutish leader of the ragtag caravan, the dark haired and baleful Molvar. Poor kid seemed completely left out of the lot of it. His mum looked after him well enough, but she had to mind herself around that husband of hers, lest his temper get the best of him. The old man shrugged his shoulders to himself as he straightened up. That was one of the reasons he'd made a decision a long time ago to just disregard all relationships in general. They only brought about children, or trouble, or (most often) both. It was smarter to just work for yourself, keep money for yourself, and grow old alone. There wasn't a problem in the world that couldn't be cured by seclusion, he thought to himself, as long as one wasn't particularly prone to loneliness. That was why he was travelling here to the border. At 67 years old, he was just about ready to retire his profession and take up a comfortable life wherein he could be cared for by those who wished him well. Bruma seemed as good a place as any.

Molvar yelled nearby and Hogarth glanced over. That kid again. Somehow managed to slip by them all and was currently chatting up the town guards. Small for his age, likely from a poor diet growing up- but his clothes were clean enough, and his face well scrubbed. The hair though, seemed to be a completely forgotten concept. He'd watched the mum try her best to comb it back every morning, but the kid always managed to fuss it into a mess throughout the day. Still, they'd only just arrived at their destination, and the caravan hadn't even had its contents checked yet, and already the child had managed to find himself some interesting distraction. He wondered idly what they were talking about, as he was a few too many feet far off to hear them. Molvar was hollering about not wandering off. Not that the kid couldn't handle himself- though, old Mol probably didn't know that. Nearly convinced Hogarth himself that he was a shy dullard the first day they'd met, only to find later on that the kid had an agile mind, and was only doing the fantastic impression of stupidity because… well, because he could. /With the proper training and a good dollop of respect for his elders, that kid could be a wonder/ he considered. Might be worth mentioning him to Silian, once he was in the town.

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Hogarth took his leave of the travelers shortly after the group had made its way into the city. As the little family dragged their small carriage of worldly possession to their new home, only the mother and the boy bade him farewell. From the merchant with the ale breath he got a copper less than he was promised- no that that was unexpected. It was still enough to warrant a bit of a sigh as he grabbed hold of his staff and began wandering through the streets of the small town, fingering his meager payment in his pocket. In reality, the boy was a smart child, and he wouldn't have minded teaching him free. He had a rare potential and a sharp wit. But there was something about being shortchanged on a contract- any sort of contract – that mage Hogarth wish to smack the man's head in with the ball of his staff until he was nothing more than squidgy pudding with a body loosely attached to it.

The old man considered the last few legs of their journey together fondly. Once the kid had dropped the dumbass act he'd been quite the neat character. With his mother and his step father, travelling to make a new life together in Bruma; as a trading hub, it was a good place for a merchant to settle with his new wife. Start a family- get the boy a good solid apprenticeship so he can earn his keep. Waste of talent, really, but it wasn't his place to say.

A hooded man sidled up beside him as he walked through the marketplace, offering his arm in support so that he would not have to lean so heavily on his staff as he walked. Arthritis was a bitch on the joints. "Silian, my boy. Keeping tabs on the gate for me, were you? " he queried congenially, stopping off at the bakers stand to purchase a sweet roll for himself.

"I would be a poor host indeed if I'd left you to wander the streets alone. It is your first time to Bruma, brother. You deserve both a warm welcome and an introduction to your new home." Silian had a smooth voice, and a tendency to speak quietly. It was a trait that forced those around him to listen closely whenever he spoke, so he could be certain that they are paying him the attention he desired. He was a Dunmer, and the hood concealed his sanguine eyes from the harsh lights of the northern sun. He silently declined Hogarths offering of a nibble from his treat, and happily slipped the man's pack off of his back, shouldering it himself. The old man hummed appreciatively with a full mouth and leaned comfortably on his host, continuing down the street and towards the church.

"Mush appreci'ted," he mumbled, a few crumbs flying from his full mouth as he spoke. "This is a nice town, actually. Though I can't see it being lucrative enough for your family to live off of." Though expanded, the town was small enough that all the residents would know each other by sight or name, and gossip must have been a popular past time. Admittedly however, the merchant and travelling population was high enough to warrant two inns that seemed to be regularly full.

"Of course. Also… quite the contrary. You'll find our family is most occupied with their work here. You know how the old saying goes." The Dunmer stepped lightly up the small staircase of an old mausoleum/monument, slipping his fingers into a crease in the decorated stonework and pressing a hidden pressure plate that caused the front of the wall to swing forward, exposing a tunnel leading down into the earth. " Shall we get you settled in?"

"Hmph. 'As long as there's two sentient beings left in Tamriel, someone want's someone else dead."

"Precisely."


	3. Interlude

The fire in the hearth flickered desperately, as if it were trying to gain the attentions of the occupants of the house to beg for the nourishment of wood to sustain its short lifespan for a few hours more. A small but calloused hand grasped at a stick and poked deeply into the coals, disturbing them somewhat.

"Pea? what are you doing over there?" Ladia walked softly down the steps from the upper part of their modest but comfortable home, garbed in a clean yet drab cotton night gown and hair neatly braided behind her head. It was well past high-moon, late into the evening. Her child should have been many hours in bed by this point.

"I was wondering..." the boy murmured, jabbing into the depths of the wilting flame once more. "Is it murder if you watch something die? if you know you could save it but you choose not to? or is it it not?" He looked around at her, and although his face was half cast in shadow, his mother could still see he had circles under his eyes from poor sleep.

She smiled gently and strode over to him, long gown sweeping the floor gently. A sweet woman, she sat down behind him and gathered him into her lap; even though he was eleven years of age- in his mind, nearly a man full grown- she still managed to get away with coddling every once in a while.

"Well, I dont know about any of that. I think it's something that the Gods are meant to sort out, eventually darling. Some things are not for the likes of mortals to think of." She gently carded her fingers through his hair, sifting through and smoothing tangles with the prowess of a professional who has done so for many years. The young boys eyes began to droop a bit. "Besides," she murmured softly, "That's just a dreadful thing to think of, pea. " The fire in the hearth flickered again, sending up a tongue like a small flare gun, one last gasping plea. She wrinkled her nose and kissed her sons forehead. "Such things you come up with, really." She could feel him shrug.

Molvar was out tonight on business, as he was most nights. He would come home in a few hours, or a day or so, depending on what he was up to. If it was in stained clothes and with ale on his breath and a foul temper, she would wash the stains away and cook a hearty cabbage stew and sooth his hard working soul. Ladia was a gentle woman, the sort of innocent that you simply cannot beat out of a person because it is stitched into their very soul- usually alongside simple mindedness. She was pretty and kind, and gentle though- and if her innocence made her blind then it was the sort of blindness you could be glad to let her keep.

As the child settled into her embrace, she began to sing softly to him in a voice as gentle as her soul

"Oh, fear not the bugle,

Tho' loudly it blows,

It calls but the warders

That guard thy repose;

Their bows would be bended,

Their blades would be red,

Ere the step of a foeman

Draws near to thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my baby,

Thy sire was a knight,

Oh, hush thee, my baby,

So bonnie, so bright."

Molvar was back the next morning, stumbling through the doorway in a black, whiskey-humped mood. It was early enough that his wife and her bratty spawn were still abed, and if the fire was still burning, plenty of logs to keep it lively though another few hours- well, he wasnt in the mind to notice.


End file.
